


Father, please...

by Toruviel



Series: Six millennia [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Blink And You Miss It Slash, Crucifixion, Friendship, Gen, M/M, Other, Pain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-16
Updated: 2019-07-16
Packaged: 2020-06-29 19:10:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19836694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Toruviel/pseuds/Toruviel
Summary: 33 AD.What kind of God required this?





	Father, please...

**Author's Note:**

> Written in half an hour, full of feels, not intended to offend anybody. I regret nothing.

"Father, please…"

You stand well away, hidden in the crowd, but these words still pierce you like a blade.

"You have to forgive them," the Son gasps. "They don’t know what they are doing."

None of them do, not ever. And it has never made any difference.

A hammer falls and you wince in sympathy, in remembered pain. Another winces with you. You spy a white-clad figure, the immaterial, invisible wings tucked tightly around them.

"Come to smirk at the poor bugger, have you?" you taunt, sharper than usual. Your borrowed muscles and sinew sting, ache, the hollowness where the Lord's Grace used to be jaws wide and black. The hammer falls again.

"Smirk? Me?" your angel asks, protest in every line of his body.

"Well, your lot put him on there."

 _On there_ , stretched across the wooden cross. _On there_ , bared like the lowest criminal, humiliated and spat on. _On there,_ tortured and slowly, so very slowly, murdered. And for what?

What kind of God allowed this suffering?

"I'm not consulted on policy decisions, Crawley."

Big surprise, that.

You respond in some manner, you feel your lips moving, but you cannot pay attention, not truly. Your eyes are riveted to the soldiers and the young man, a boy, really. The hammer falls again. The young man moans, tries so hard not to cry. You swallow.

"Did you, um… ever meet him?" your angel asks.

"Yes. Seemed a very bright young man," you answer, recalling the desert and the boy, keen and stubborn and in love with the world. "I showed him all the kingdoms of the world."

"Why?"

So at least he'd know what he was dying for.

"He's a carpenter from Galilee," you quip. "His travel opportunities are limited."

The hammer falls. You both wince.

"That's got to hurt," you mutter, your own wrists aching. "What was it he said that got everyone so upset?"

"Be kind to each other."

Oh. Oh, that hopeless fool.

Did he not listen? Did he truly not know? God created humans in his image, after all, and so they are marvellous, and brave, and cruel. Vindictive. Willing to condemn others for the smallest sin, the briefest hesitation, the gentlest correction. More than willing to nail a fellow human to a cross and watch him slowly suffocate.

And here he was, the Son of God, dying. Bleeding. Suffering in hopes of winning forgiveness for a sin not his own, for an action that should not be a crime at all.

What kind of being required this suffering, this pain, in order to forgive?

"Oh, yeah," you mock, so you wouldn’t cry. "That'd do it."

Your angel has no answer.


End file.
